Midnight Blues
by Emerald Queen
Summary: A disasterous rescue, and a night time conversation.
1. Chapter One

_A/N: Just a little something that's been bouncing around in my head for a little while. I hope you like it. Mixed verse, but it isn't all that noticable._

_Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit._

**Midnight Blues**

_The great, smoking building rumbled, it's burning foundations and crisped, smoking interiors no longer able to hold the weight of what had once been the world's most spectacular, and expensive, hotel. Around it, the night sky was lit up with the dazzling heat, and flames leapt high in to the air._

_"Virgil, Gordon, get out of there, that place isn't going to hold."_

_The voice of his younger brother was strained, and crackling fires background made it difficult for Scott to make out the words properly._

_"Two minutes. We've nearly got her, Scott. Just two more minutes."_

_"Damnit, Virgil, I said hurry up!"_

_To this, there was no reply, which made Scott frown. As the tall ruins belched more fire from what had once been windows, it gave another great shudder, creaking in the winds. He looked around as the hotel manager, rescued around ten minutes previously, hurried up. His face was blackened with soot, and he had the kind of worried look that Scott had seen countless times before, all across the globe. The ruined dinner suit hung in tatters around his exceptionally round waist, and his waxed moustache drooped lopsidedly as he tried to make himself useful._

_"If there's anything…"_

_Scott cut across him, knowing the question._

_"How many people are still unaccounted for?"_

_The little man looked down at a clip board, and ran his stubby finger down a smudged list._

_"Seven. An old lady and her daughter – Mrs and Miss Stevenson, a gentleman from England – Mr Smith, and a mother and her three children – the Zhao family." He stopped, and took a few short, wheezing breaths before bending double in to a fully fledged coughing fit. His secretary, not quite as filthy as the manager himself, handed the man a bottle of water and crooned some soothing words, whilst Scott radioed in to Virgil and Gordon._

_"Listen, guys, there's still a few more people left. How close are you to getting that woman out?"_

_"Two minutes, Scott."_

_"You said that two minutes ago! Look, you're going to have to work faster, because this building isn't going to stay up much longer. Do you need Alan to give you a hand?"_

_Even as he finished speaking, he noticed a tall, slender woman flop out of one of the ground floor windows, helped by a blonde figure in a very familiar blue uniform. The figure, Alan, handed down a child to her, and then another. Finally, holding a third, tiny infant in his arms, he leaped down from the window himself, and was quickly met by two doctors, who had just arrived in a flurry of ambulances, sirens wailing._

_'About time,' Scott thought, but said nothing out loud. Being so high up in the mountains, and cut off from any easy access to anywhere other than a small village seven miles away, it was no wonder that the emergency services had taken their time. Besides, with all the snow on the ground, there were snow drifts at several points on the narrow roads. There was no way they could have got their any faster. There was, however, still no sign of any fire engines._

_Having handed over the howling child to its grateful mother, Alan jogged up to Scott._

_"How much left to do?"_

_"Not much. Virgil and Gordon are five floors up at the moment, and there are just three more people after that. We'll. . ."_

_Which was when it had happened._

_The base of the hotel exploded with a huge roar of energy, and the explosion carried on up through the massive, towering structure, the whole thing finally giving way and toppling, as if in slow motion, towards the ground. Scott and Alan didn't hesitate._

_"Get back!" howled Alan, towards the panicking mass of doctors and soot-covered holiday makers and hotel staff. "Go!"_

_They needed no second bidding, running as fast as they could towards the relative safety of the snow covered pine trees. Scott, however, didn't move until Alan grabbed his arm and began pulling him away, scrambling as quickly as they could away from the falling chunks of smouldering debris, slipping and sliding on the icy ground._

_The collapse of the building seemed unending, and the clouds of ash and dust billowed upwards in to the sky, blocking out the twinkling stars. In the deafening roar, petrified screams were drowned out, until the hellish cacophony petered out as much as it could, leaving only an unearthly silence, broken here and there by thin, ghostly wails. There was no way anybody in the building could possibly have survived._

_"Scott, what just happened?" John's voice came over the airwaves, but Scott didn't hear it. He stared at the destruction – at where two of his brothers lay, encased in early tombs. Waves of shock began taking over his consciousness._

_"Scott? Scott? Are you there?"_

_The man felt his knees collapse beneath him, the dirty snow seeping through the blue fabric, and a few meters away, he heard Alan give a shuddering sob._

_"Virgil?" He whispered, "Virgil? Gordon? No!"_

"No!" Drenched in sweat, Scott sat bolt upright, the tangled sheets around him twisted and crumpled, weaving knots around his legs. He struggled free, swung his legs over the side of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

It had been three months since the mission, and the dream had come back every single night to haunt him, without fail. That terrible feeling of despair, like a black cloud, which came back almost every day. The thought of losing any of his brothers was unimaginable.

Pushing himself up from the edge of the bed, Scott padded down the deserted hallway, having pulled on a dressing gown, in the direction of the kitchen. He needed a drink. Just one, maybe, before going down to the gym. It was the middle of the night, and Scott could feel his eyes willing themselves to shut, but he couldn't face going back to bed just yet. He probably wouldn't at all, tonight, although he'd been so tired recently that it was a miracle he hadn't already collapsed.

Reaching for bottle, he unscrewed the lid, and tipped it over the glass . . . but no liquid was forthcoming. Squinting in the darkness, Scott realised that it was empty. He frowned, trying to think back to last night. It had been at least half full then, surely! A soft voice from the sofa startled him.

"I emptied it down the sink. It was scaring me, you know. You aren't sleeping at all, you're hardly ever out of Thunderbird 1's hanger, and when you are, you're drinking."

Sighing, the man replaced the empty bottle on the shelf, and sat down heavily on the sofa, beside his brother. He rubbed his eyes, wearily.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Shouldn't I? It's what you did, when Father started drinking all the time, after Ma died. Every drop of alcohol that you could find went down the kitchen sink."

"Yeah, and if you remember, that was the only time he ever hit me."

For a while, there was silence, and then Scott shook his head, looking mournfully at his hands.

"I was dreaming about it again."

His companion nodded in the darkness, neither of them having bothered to turn on the lights. "I know."

There was another pause, and Scott stood up, wandered over to the window, and stared out at the stars. It was a clear night, with not a cloud in the sky. The stars were so much clearer tonight – on the mission, there had been none visible at all. Too much smoke and ash. He felt, rather than saw, his brother moving to stand just next to him.

"I don't think I've ever had a worse feeling in my whole life, Virgil, not even when Ma died. When I pulled you out of that rubble. . . I thought you were dead. You were just so cold and pale, and so limp. I was so sure that you weren't breathing. What happened to you should have killed you."

"It nearly did."

"Should have killed Gordon, too."

"I'm not sure it didn't. He's hardly spoken a word since he woke up, and that was three weeks ago, now."

"I know."

There was another long pause, and then Scott began to walk away.

"Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"Don't lie, Scott."

Scott turned around and, for the first time since the hotel had collapsed, looked at his brother, properly. It was almost as though nothing about him had changed. Not when he was standing still, anyway, like he was now. When he walked, he still limped, having broken several bones, but Scott had not seen if there were any scars left. He could not bear to look. Virgil stared back defiantly, his honey coloured eyes burning with an intense anger that Scott had rarely encountered.

"If any of us should be hiding away, it's me or Gordon." Virgil's voice had raised an octave, reflecting the pent up emotions which were beginning to boil over.

"I'm not hiding, Virgil."

"Right. Sure. Talk to me, then!"

"I already have!"

"Not everything!" They were shouting now, standing on opposite sides of the room, fists clenched. Suddenly, Virgil turned away, and lurched towards his piano, leaning against it as if for support. "Fine," he whispered, "Keep it bottled up. Go back to bed, if that's where you really were going."

"Virgil?"

There was no reply, except the sound of the island bugs outside, chirruping away, oblivious to the tension. Inside, the room seemed to have become hotter by at least ten degrees.

"Virgil, I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . it's just . . . you were dead, okay? You and Gordon both died, right in front of my eyes, and it was my fault."

"We didn't die, though."

"For those two days when you were buried under all that rubble, you may as well have been! We all . . . I mean . . ." He trailed off as his voice rose sharply, and waved his hands helplessly before continuing, slowly. "You were dead, Virgil. Both of you. For two days, you had died. Nobody thought for a second that you could possibly be alive. Not even when I was cradling you in my arms did I even think that you had survived! When you choked . . ." He opened the drinks cabinet again, as if in the hope that the bottle had filled itself up, but when he lifted it up, it was still empty. In a sudden burst of anger, the man threw it across the room, where it hit the opposite wall and splintered in to little shards, which went flying out over the floor.

Virgil ducked, flinching. "Scott! Stop it!"

"W's goin' on?" Startled, they both jumped around, to see a half asleep figure in the doorway. Gordon rubbed at his eyes, wearily, his voice slurring. "'S half one, guys. Go back to bed, 'n' let th' rest of us sleep. At least quit yellin', will ya?"

"Sorry, kid. We didn't realise we were being so loud. We'll be two minutes. You go back to bed. We promise not to disturb you, right Scott?"

Scott didn't say anything, still seething, but Gordon shrugged, his dressing gown slipping off his shoulder.

"'M up now. Any cookies left?"

"Yeah. I saw Onaha hide them behind the seasonings this afternoon. Get me one."

As Gordon rummaged around, he clumsily knocked over a few of the glass bottles containing herbs and spices. He looked back around at Scott and Virgil, and threw Virgil one of the precious cookies, not falling for the illusion of peace that his brothers – or at least, Virgil - were trying to create. He then sat down on the sofa with the brightly coloured tin in his lap, making a mess of chocolaty crumbs as he bit in to one, spraying them around himself in a meter radius.

"So what were you arguing about?"

"The mission."

The aquanaut froze, the second cookie half way to his mouth, and then he spluttered, crumbs spitting everywhere.

"'M going back to bed. See you in the morning." He made a hurried exit for the door, leaving the tin of cookies on the sofa. Virgil, still holding his own cookie, frowned at Scott.

"Nice, Scott. Real nice. He'll be avoiding you for the rest of the week, now."

Scott shrugged, ruefully.

"I didn't think."

"Just apologise to him in the morning, won't you? Want a cookie?"

Scott shook his head, but sat down on the sofa again anyway, not bothering to brush away any of the crumbs. Virgil padded over anyway to sit beside him, but Scott looked away, his brother's limp making him uncomfortable.

"Scott? It wasn't your fault, you know. Sure, being trapped in that hole until I passed out, stuck with those two dead women and Gordon in agony was definitely one of the worst experiences I've ever had, but if somebody gave the option between leaving International Rescue and being safe, or going through that again, you know what? I would choose the latter. So would Gordon. No two ways about it. What's happened has happened. It's in the past. You told us to hurry up, but we stayed there. We disobeyed orders. None of it was your fault."

"I should have . . ."

"Don't, Scotty. Please."

"How did you manage it?"

"Huh?" The sudden change in direction of the conversation made Virgil blink in surprise.

"Surviving."

Virgil shrugged, uneasily, and looked away. Shifting position, he pulled his feet up on to the sofa, curling up in to a little ball.

"It's all thanks to Gordon, really. If he hadn't been in so much pain, I would probably have just given up and gone to sleep."

"You don't mean that."

"You weren't there, Scott. I almost did. Give up, that is. The only reason I knew I was alive was because of the pain. I couldn't tell if I was facing up or down, or even if I was in one piece. Everything just hurt so much, I shut my eyes, and I wished more than anything that it would all just go away. I didn't see how it was possible for Gordon to be alive, and all there was, was darkness and pain. I couldn't see a thing, but then . . . then . . . I guess I heard him whimpering, or something. It was awful. I couldn't just leave him there, so I had to find some way to help him, but I couldn't reach him, so I had to keep talking. He passed out not long after, but I only let myself go once I heard you guys digging away above me. I figured he would be okay, by then, if he was still alive."

"'Okay' is hardly the word I would use to describe him."

Virgil gave a short, bitter snort of laughter, remembering seeing Gordon lying in a coma five minutes after he himself had woken up, and then took another cookie from the discarded tin. He looked at it for a moment, and then threw it back, making it break in to two crumbly pieces.

"Not in the mood for cookies."

"Me neither."

"Are you going to stop avoiding us all, then?" the younger brother asked, after a short pause

"Mm."

The younger man picked up the cookie tin again, and bit in to one, half-heartedly.

"Thought you said you weren't in the mood for cookies?"

"I'm not, but they'll only get eaten by Alan and Gordon, otherwise. Shame to waste them."

Again, the room passed in to silence, but this time, it was much more comfortable, as though the air had cleared after a storm. Scott shifted position, so that he was leaning against Virgil's shoulder, and felt his eyelids drooping.

"Thanks," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"For making me talk. For listening."

"That's what I'm here for, bro."

Scott smiled as he shut his eyes, unable to find the energy to go back to bed. Besides, Virgil's shoulder was just so comfy. . .

In the morning, when Jeff Tracy strode in to the room holding a mug of steaming coffee, he smiled when he noticed the two sleeping forms of his sons. They were curled up, half on and half off the sofa, as though each was trying to protect the other. Seeing the empty tin that Onaha used to keep cookies in on its side on the floor, Jeff walked over quietly, and picked it up. No need to upset Onaha. He wondered briefly what they were doing there, and then noticed the smashed glass on the other side of the room, and the empty bottles that still stood in the cabinet, and put two and two together. Good. They'd both needed to talk. Now, perhaps things would be able to return to normal. Smiling softly to himself, Jeff headed for his office.

No need to disturb the boys just yet. They'd earned their rest.


	2. Chapter Two

_A/N: I wasn't going to write another chapter, but I think I left a few lose strings flapping around. So here's chapter two. Many thanks to anybody who's reviewed. Mixed verse._

_Disclaimer:As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit._

**Chapter 2**

_The young woman was, understandably, terrified. Neither Virgil nor Gordon had managed to get a coherent sentence from her since finding her trapped under a collapsed wardrobe, five minutes ago. There should have been no problem getting her out, however, due to the catatonic state which she was in, they were facing difficulties. When Virgil had reached out his hand to her, attempting to calm her down, she had grabbed it, and refused to let go. Her nails were sharp but worn, as thought she had been scrabbling at the wood in her attempts to get free. The pink nail varnish was chipped, and the hands covered in scratches and dust. Had she been in her right frame of mind, Gordon suspected that the first thing she would have done was rush off to find a nail parlour. You could tell a lot about people by their hands, he had learnt._

_The point was, though, that they were facing difficulties, and the woman wasn't making it any easier. She had called Virgil 'Jason' at least five times, and had not seemed to notice Gordon at all. To top it off, Scott kept radioing in._

_"Virgil, Gordon, get out of there, this place isn't going to hold."_

_"Whose he telling?" growled Gordon, as Virgil replied with some difficulty, as he only had one available hand. Gordon would have spoken to Scott, however, he was busy trying to lever the wardrobe to a position where they would be able to pull out the woman, who had began to pour her heart out in between choked sobs._

_"Damnit, Virgil, I said hurry up!"_

_Much to Gordon's satisfaction, his older brother didn't reply to Scott, instead just mumbling an incoherent profanity._

_"You've nearly got it, Gords. Just a little bit higher. The aquanaut grunted, and shoved his weight against the heavy wood, no doubt filled with various outfits that had only been worn once, or had not yet even been tried on._

_"Okay, that's enough. Hold it there."_

_He heard scrabbling from the other side, and the top half of the woman's body emerged. She was, Gordon concluded, in a state. The suit was, or had been, in a pink which reminded him instantly of the stunning Lady Penelope, whom he had wished his father to invite to live on the island, for various occasion. Yes, he missed Ma very much, but all the Tracy clan could see just what the patriarch felt for the English rose. Shaking his head, he forced himself back to the present, which was far more important than any love affair._

_Kicking and scrabbling, the second half had nearly emerged, when Scott radioed in again. This time, Gordon only just managed to stop himself from swearing loudly at his eldest brother. Scott's timing had always been far from perfect, but this was just taking the biscuit._

_"Two minutes, Scott!" Virgil managed, before ignoring whatever it was that Scott was babbling about. On the way back home, Gordon decided, there were going to be some serious words said. Hopefully not to the extent of a fully blown argument, but you never could tell._

_"Have you got her, Virg?"_

_"Yeah, she's out."_

_As the woman threw her arms around Virgil, kissing him repeatedly on the cheeks, Gordon let the wardrobe fall back to the ground with a thump._

_"Okay, let's get out before the fire really takes hold in here."_

_The woman, however, had other ideas. Her black, soot covered hair bouncing around her shoulders, she suddenly pushed Virgil away, making him lose his balance, and rushed over burning debris to scrabble at a door which linked this room to the next. When Gordon tried to pull her away, she began howling, scratching at his face, trying to get the door open._

_"Mother! No! Mother!"_

_"Virgil, give me a hand!"_

_As Virgil leapt over the smouldering wreckage of the highly expensive bedroom, trying not to trip over the various shoes that were scattered around the floor, the building gave a huge shudder, and Gordon felt his stomach lurch. An explosion of fire burst through in to the room from the corridor, and the two Tracy men threw themselves to the ground, pulling the hysterical woman with them. The floor in the middle of the room collapsed inwards, the beams giving way to the fire which had tortured them for so long. The fire licked the ceiling, gushing out of the window, blocking any hope of escape, and tearing at the bed, wardrobe, shoes, chairs, tables and all the other plush furnishings which had once been such a strong selling point for the hotel._

_Hearing his brother yell out in agony, Gordon watched in terror as part of the crumbling ceiling followed the floor and, in charred and mutilated chunks, buried his elder brother._

_"Virgil! No!"_

_If he'd had the time, he would have tried to free Virgil – or at least find his body – but the woman was still struggling in his arms, trying to claw her way back to the door as the floor beneath them tilted dramatically, smashing them against the far wall. With an agonising crack, Gordon felt something break, but there was no time to mourn. Still pulling the woman close, in a vain attempt to protect her from the debris, he tried to block his ears from her piercing wails…_

_…and then, the falling sensation stopped. The entire episode had taken less than half a minute._

_Around them, everything was pitch black. Apart from the sweltering heat and the roaring sound which surrounded them, it would have been impossible to know about the raging fire. Above them, the unsteady, temporary roof of charcoal like debris quivered as more falling plaster from the higher floors landed on it. He pulled the woman as close as he could, still remembering his duty to save lives, and, thankfully, she had become still and silent, making his job easier._

_When everything seemed to have become still, save for the roar of the fire from beyond the blackness, Gordon gave the woman a gentle shake. She didn't move, lying limply between his arms, his body crushing hers in the small space. He squiggled around, although it was distressingly painful to do so. He gritted his teeth, reminding himself that he had been through worse in the hydrofoil accident, and gave the woman another gentle shake. Again, there was no reaction._

_Trying to keep his cool, Gordon groped around in the darkness for her wrist and, finding it, fumbled to feel the pulse._

_There wasn't one._

_He shut his eyes, not that there was any difference, and groaned. By this point, his right arm was beginning to feel numb, due to the woman lying on it, but he couldn't move. Besides anything else, he had a sneaking suspicion that he had broken it. Attempting to feel his fingers, Gordon tried to twitch, but found that he couldn't. He hoped desperately that the numbness was due to the dead woman, but there was no way of being sure._

_Trying not to let himself cry, he whimpered, a cross between agony and mourning._

_Virgil. Dead._

_Alan . . . had Alan still been in the building when it collapsed?_

_He must have been. Hadn't he run up to the floor above them, having heard a child wailing?_

_Two brothers down._

_He didn't think he would take long. The pain was, by now, too excruciating. Just like the hydrofoil accident. His back was the worst, having been smashed against the wall when he was falling. Great. Another bunch of scars to add to the collection._

_He whimpered again, a large tear escaping him, and then another, and then another._

_"Gordon? Gordon, is that you?"_

_Virgil._

_Did that mean that he, Gordon, was dead, too? Where was Alan? Ma? Ma must be here! Here in this hell._

_In a way, he contemplated as he gritted his teeth, it was a relief to know that he was dead. It meant that he didn't have to experience death itself. He wondered vaguely, as the pain began to leave him, when it had happened. How had he managed to miss dying?_

_Besides, where were Ma and Alan? He could still hear Virgil's voice. Reaching out his god arm, however, he found that he was entombed all around. Virgil wasn't here. An illusion. That's all Virgil's voice was. Some kind of illusion._

_Choking out tears, Gordon finally allowed the darkness to swallow him up completely, until he knew no more._

Gordon scrubbed away feverously at the yellow paintwork of his beloved Thunderbird, the soap suds covering his hands like snow. The snow that covered the ground outside the hotel . . . no . . . no, he mustn't think about that. Stupid Scott, bringing it up again, after all this time. Didn't he know how Gordon felt about it? Then again, Virgil had confided in him that he'd seen Scott drinking in the early hours, just like Dad had after Ma died; maybe he felt it, too. Not the same thing, obviously. He hadn't been trapped in that horrifying darkness. He'd thought Virgil and Gordon were dead.

Then again, Gordon had been certain that they were dead, too, not to mention Alan. He'd been so relieved to find out that Alan was fine. He'd almost started crying again.

A tear drop splashed in to the soap suds.

Wiping his eyes furiously, Gordon chided himself. No, he wouldn't start crying. Again. That would make it, what, the fourth time this week? What was wrong with him? He hadn't been like this since Ma died! It was almost as though he couldn't do anything being reminded of that horrible, horrible, mission.

Scrubbing away more furiously, embedding himself in his task, Gordon failed to notice the doors to the hanger opening, and a figure walking through. Not until the person was right beneath him, and called up.

"Gordon! Can I talk to you?"

He froze.

Scott.

Peering over the side of the 'bird, he tried desperately to find an excuse to get out of speaking with his brother. Once or twice, he had thought briefly that, if Scott hadn't disturbed Virgil and himself whilst they were trying to free the woman from the wardrobe, they may all have got out fine. Then, he had told himself off just as quickly. They would have had to get the old woman from the next room – Virgil had told him much later that the reason the dead woman, a Miss Stevenson, had been holidaying with her old mother, trying to get over the loss of the old lady's husband and sister dying within a week of each other. It had been the old lady who had been on the other side of the door which Miss Stevenson had been frantically scrabbling at, just before the explosion.

"Gordon?"

"I. . . I was just finishing up. I'll be two minutes."

Two minutes. That's how long Virgil had told Scott they would be. It turned out to be two days. Gordon cursed his choice of the words. Swinging around, he accidentally knocked the bucket over, and there was a yelp from below.

"You could have just told me to come back later, Gords!"

Peering over the edge of the submarine, Gordon realised that he had just managed to completely soak his brother, unintentionally. Perfect. He would have to go and get changed now, giving Gordon the perfect excuse to escape.

Scott, however, had no such ideas. Striping off his t-shirt to wring it out, he looked up at Gordon.

"Look, I'm sorry I was so sharp last night. Please can we talk?"

Gordon shrugged, but carried on simply staring. Sighing, Scott pulled himself up the ladder, and shrugged the wet t-shirt back on.

"I'm sorry, Gordon."

"Mm."

It was an ambiguous sound, and could have meant anything from 'You've already said that,' or 'I know,' to 'Get off my Thunderbird and leave me alone.' All things considered, its closest translation to anything understandable was the latter, which upset Scott. Silence spread its wings, and the two siblings looked away from each other. Slowly, Gordon picked up his sponge, and began to make slow circles in the suds, polishing the paint. Scott grabbed it, and threw it on to the floor of the hanger, in the middle of the stretching puddle of water.

Still not saying anything, Gordon just glowered, and drew his knees up, wrapping his arms around his legs. This was his territory, and Scott had no right to invade.

"I never meant to offend you."

His only reply was a shrug.

"Virgil said you'd go like this. Please don't go all cold on us, Gords. I'm sorry. I don't what else there is to say."

Still, there was no reply. The elder man bit his lip in frustration, not knowing how to handle the situation. The only time Gordon had ever done this was with the hydrofoil incident, and he hadn't been around for a lot of that, due to the Air Force keeping him on duty.

"Is it me, or is it everything?"

At this, Gordon looked away, blinking furiously. Yes, it was Scott, but yes, it was everything. Every single little thing. Every time Virgil spoke, it was like being back in the darkness again, thinking he was being spoken to by an angel he could neither see nor touch. Each time he saw Alan, he remembered the blind panic that he had felt when he thought his baby brother had died first. Grandma and Onaha took the place of the old woman they had never even seen. Tin-tin replaced Miss Stevenson. The sunlight just taunted him, and the night time, especially starless nights, were even worse, because it was like being cramped in that awful, dark space again. Small spaces were the worst. Gordon had never considered himself to be a claustrophobe, but since being in that tiny little space for so long with the corpse pressed against him, well, even his bedroom walls felt as though they were closing in, at times.

"Please, Gordon?"

"It's everything."

The tears that had been threatening to spill now began to trickle down his cheeks in a steady wave. He wiped them away with his arm, only succeeding to cover his face in soap suds, which made his eyes stream even more.

He felt Scott wrap his arms around his shoulders, and begin to rock him gently, just as he had done every time Gordon had gone running to him as a small child, after falling over, having nightmares, or getting in to trouble at school. At first, Gordon seized up, but then he relaxed, and let his head fall in to Scott's shoulder.

They stayed there for a long time, with Gordon sobbing his heart out, unaware that they were being watched from the shadows by another figure.

At last, Gordon pulled away, Scott's arm still around his shoulders, and he wiped away the remaining tears which had dried on his reddened, flushed cheeks.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Nothing to be sorry about. If there's anyone who should be sorry. . ."

"Maybe we should both stop saying sorry."

"Maybe."

For the first time since before the mission, Gordon let his lips twitch in to a brief smile. Rubbing his eyes once more, Gordon looked around.

"I should clear up."

"I'll give you a hand."

Opening his mouth to refuse the offer, Gordon changed his mind, shrugged, and smiled again.

"Fancy something to eat first? I want a cookie."

"Virgil finished them off last night. I think Onaha has some more cookie dough on the go, though. If you're interested, of course."

"Feel like eating so much cookie dough you make yourself sick?" This time, the grin truly belonged to the old, happy-go-lucky Gordon who pulled pranks every other day. Glad to see his brother returning to his old moods, if somewhat tentatively, Scott jumped at the chance.

"You're on! What's the plan of action?"

"You distract her, I'll grab the bowl."

"Right!"

Clambering down the ladder, and running off towards the door to the hanger, slipping a little on the water which now completely drenched the floor, the pair disappeared out of sight. The sores left by the mission had by no means healed, Alan thought, as he emerged from the shadows, but at least they were beginning to mend. Wishing he could summon up the guts to spill his emotions out to somebody, anybody, Alan shook his head and stalked off to find the tools which he had been looking for.


	3. Chapter Three

_Claudette: In reply to your questions about the mixed verse, you mostly got it right. I prefer the television's canon, because there's so much more about all the brothers, not just Alan, with snippets of John. Also, as you suspected, the marionettes are just too . . . calm. They never seem to get worked up, and they would definitely never cry. Although, I have a suspicion that movie-verse Gordon would have quite a lot to say about that, too. It's just that in the movie, you can see the adrenaline working, you can see them worrying, and you can see them staring death in the face. That's something that just doesn't happen in the series._

_Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit._

**Chapter 3**

_The rubble and devastation seemed endless, as though nothing could ever be done to remove it. A permanent blot on the pristine, snow covered landscape._

_They were still finding people alive, even now, two days later. Although people had run for the safety of the woods, not everybody had made it, and had been caught in the showed of falling masonry. It was one of these people whom Alan was now trying to save, whilst Scott was busy on the other side of the rubble, both of them working mechanically, as if on autopilot. Three fire men, who had arrived on the scene half an hour after the collapse, had been acting like personal aides to him, staying by him to help sift through the wreckage, whilst other teams had been deployed elsewhere. Currently, the man they were trying to save was hidden under an ambulance, which had been apparently buried as the first stones fell._

_"We've nearly reached you, James, so we just want you to get as far back under that ambulance as you can, in case any stones fall through. Got that?"_

_"I've got it," came the muffled reply. So far as Alan could understand, James had broken his ankle, or at least twisted it. His companion had been hit on the head by a falling chunk of plaster, and had not regained consciousness since._

_"Just this one last stone," Alan said, turning his attention to the firemen, "and we should have them out." His voice sounded hollow and lifeless, echoing around his head as though he was in a nightmare. At least there was daylight, now, so they could clearly see what they were doing, and at least the fires had been extinguished, although the burning pyre had put up an incredible fight._

_The fire men heaved their weight and, slowly, the blackened stone moved. They had not moved it far before there was a cry of relief from under the wrecked vehicle, and a pale hand was thrust through the gap. Setting the stone down carefully, in case it set off a miniature landslide, Alan grabbed the hand and pulled, clearing away the smaller, dusty pieces of charcoal and twisted metal which were still trapping the man._

_With a few more tugs, the man was free. He grabbed Alan by the shoulders, and, although he was shaking and in dire need of medical treatment, the relief and thankfulness in his eyes shone almost as brightly as the sun._

_"Thank you International Rescue, thank you! You saved my life! If you ever, ever need anything . . ."_

_"Hang on there, sir, you need to find a doctor, and we'll rescue your friend . . ."_

_The man, still singing International Rescue's praises, allowed himself to be half carried away by one of the firemen, as Alan wriggled under the burnt out ambulance to find the other prisoner. It was dark; almost pitch black, except for where a ray of light poked through from the hole Alan had just created. Thrusting his weary, blistered hands around in the darkness, Alan found the limp form of the driver of the ambulance, and grabbed it by the waist. He made the man still had a pulse, and then checked for any broken bones, just as he had been taught by Virgil, in what seemed like another life. Thankfully, there were none, so Alan struggled back up through the hole, pushing the limp driver before him. As he pulled himself clear, his watch buzzed._

_"Yes?"_

_Johns face appeared, deep grey bags under his eyes. His cheeked were red and puffy, and his blonde hair was unkempt and floppy. In the small corner of his mind that was not crippled with shock or centred on pulling survivors from the rubble, Alan wondered how bad he must look, if John was such a mess, and he hadn't even been here. Still, what did appearances matter, now?_

_"They've found one of them. He's right on the other side. Scott's already there."_

_"One of who?"_

_John shut his eyes and looked away. As he did so, Alan suddenly realised which 'them' his brother was talking about._

_"Oh!"_

_Alan felt his legs give way beneath him, and he fell to the ground. The rubble bit in to his skin, but he didn't notice it. Staring in to space as cold flakes started to fall again, slowly, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. A tiny sound came out of his mouth, and he shook his head, although no question had been asked, confused and, for some reason, more scared than he had ever been in his life. He began to shiver uncontrollably._

_"What is it, Gordon mate?"_

_His muscles tensed, again an involuntary shiver._

_"They found them." His voice was small and lost, like a child he could not find his parents, and had been approached by some friendly stranger who was just trying to help. The words choked his throat and he swallowed, unable to breathe properly._

_"Gordon? Found who?"_

_Alan couldn't answer. He opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming. He leaned forward, staring at the ground, and covered his mouth with his hand._

_"Gordon?"_

_It was only then that Alan realised what the fireman, whose name he could not remember to save his life, despite having been told it at least seven times, was calling him. He looked up at the man, and finally words began to tumble out of his mouth._

_"No . . . I'm Alan . . . my brother . . . he's Gordon . . . I'm sorry, I didn't realise I said . . . they've found . . . I can't look, I can't!" the last part came out in an anguished wail, and he buried his head in his hands. The firemen looked at each other, frowning. Sure, he was young, and he hadn't seemed to be completely alert, but the cause of the sudden change worried them._

_"Who've they found?"_

_"One of my . . . my buddies. They found him. I can't look."_

_At last, they understood. The snow was falling harder now, and the pine trees had become little more than a dark, blurred outline. A suggestion, rather than anything else. The black rubble, too, was becoming coated in a thin layer of the frozen stuff, making it difficult for the rescue workers, dotted here and there like bees swarming around hives. The man from International Rescue slumped, and the fireman whose hand had been on his shoulder managed to catch him just as he keeled sideways._

_"Hey, Gordon buddy, when was the last time you got any rest?"_

_Alan opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't remember. He certainly hadn't rested here. People needed rescuing! You can't just rescue three, take a kip, and then rescue three more, because by that time, the second three might be dead. Before this, there had been . . . there had been the burning building . . . hadn't they come straight from another rescue? Something to do with a mine . . . or had they been home between that mission and this mission?_

_It was no good. He shook his head, indicating ignorance, but he suddenly realised that he was too tired to talk._

_"Okay, Gordon, let's find you somewhere to rest before you collapse."_

_"Why," he struggled to find the words as the large man lifted him to his feet. "Why d'you keep calling me Gordon? Gords . . . he's dead . . . when the building fell."_

_"You said your name was Gordon, mate. That's what you've been answering to for the last couple of days."_

_"Did I?"_

_Alan stumbled, slipping on the new snow as it turned to slush around their feet. His limbs felt like led, as though they were seizing up a little more with every step he took. He could feel his eyelids drooping, and everything in front of his eyes began to look like a wall of white fuzz. He turned his head, trying to shelter his face from the harsh white snow as it grew thicker and thicker, pelting down from the skies._

_"Where're we going?"_

_"Over to the other side. They've got some tents up for the rescue workers to use."_

_Alan stopped dead in his tracks, and then stepped back, a small burst of adrenaline returning._

_"Oh, no, not over there. That's where they found my buddies. I can't go that way."_

_"Maybe you just ought to take a look, mate."_

_His watch buzzed again, and again, Alan answered it, revealing the tired face of John._

_"Where are you? The tracking system says you've hardly moved. Scott needs you, Al."_

_"I'm . . . I'm just . . ." Unable to think of an excuse, and especially not with John looking so worried. He shrugged miserably. "There were people trapped. We needed to get them out. I'll get there now."_

_"FAB. Hey, Alan?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Look after yourself, won't you?"_

_Struggling forward through the snow to where Scott probably was, and ignoring the confused glances of the firemen, Alan wondered what had made John say the last sentence. Did he really look like he was in that much of a state? Probably. It wouldn't surprise him. His uniform was barely recognisable now, apart from the sash. The hat had been lost somewhere, pulling out the dead body of a little girl. He had not washed, either, since before first arriving at the place, so he was covered in various layers of grime, each one dampened by falling snow, and then built upon by yet another layer of ash and dust._

_It didn't matter anyway, Alan thought, as he stumbled half blind through the beating snow, followed closely by the fireman, who kept trying to support him. Gordon and Virgil were dead._

_He couldn't bear to think of what life without them would be like. No more practical jokes. No more live music. Nobody to confide in. Well, there was Tin-Tin, obviously, but she just wasn't the same. She didn't have the memories._

_It took him ten minutes, and more than ten falls and stumbles on the slippery remains, before he reached the other side, staggering around, looking for Scott. As his worry increased, when he couldn't find them, he hardly even noticed when the vicious attack of snow began to abate._

_"Are you looking for your friend?"_

_Alan turned quickly, almost losing balance, to see a young nurse standing in front of him, wrapped in a heavy coat._

_"Where is he?"_

_"He's in the tents. I'll show you."_

_The woman led Alan through the snow away from the rubble, on to snow which, although it had once been pristine and crispy, was now more like slush, as a result of the tramp, tramp, tramp of countless pairs of feet running this way and that, clearing away the destruction, saving lives, and removing the bodies of those who had not been saved. He ducked in to one of the quickly erected tents with a large, red cross on the side, and looked around. Sitting on a small camp bed was Scott, looking as though he'd never heard of 'clean' or 'sleep', cradling Virgil in his lap._

_Alan stumbled over to his brother, and collapsed on to the camp bed beside Scott, and looked down at Virgil. His face, beneath the soot, was as white as the falling snow outside, and his uniform was torn and singed. Alan had seen many dead people in life, but they had mostly been strangers, resembling larger-than-life mannequins more than anything else. Limp, miserable forms which flopped around and were there to be taken back, if possible, to their weeping families. It shouldn't be the Tracy family who had to end up weeping._

_"They haven't found Gordon yet."_

_"No."_

_Alan reached out to touch the frozen cheek of his dead brother, but recoiled before touching the actual skin, scared, terrified, in case . . . in case of what? He couldn't say._

_Scott hadn't even looked up when Alan had walked in, but he looked up now. His face was devoid of any readable emotion, and his eyes seemed to be hollow pits, reflecting a dull nothingness, stretching out for eternity._

_"I guess it had to happen someday, huh?"_

_To that, any reply the youngest Tracy may have had stuck in his throat. Tears, which should have been quick to come, seemed to have turned to ice, leaving him to blink stupidly, as though he were emerging from a dark tunnel and having a bright light shone straight in to his eyes. His head began to swim, and the world around him span like disco lights. Beside him, he heard a choke._

_"Alan! Alan, he's . . ."_

_There was another choke, and Virgil convulsed. A dark trickle of red blood, which Alan was sure had not been there before, ran from the corner of his mouth._

_"Go and get a doctor!"_

_Pushing himself to his feet, Alan ran for the door, grabbing hold of the tent flap to stop himself from falling over as the world beneath him seemed to toss and churn wildly. He grabbed the nearest person to him – the nurse who had shown him where the tent was, and who had been talking to another colleague, voice raised against the howl of the wind._

_"My buddy . . . he isn't dead. Go and get a doctor."_

_He saw her open her mouth, and knew that a stream of questions was flowing out, but he hardly heard what she was saying as he ducked back in to the tent. Whatever she wanted to know, it didn't matter. The doctors could ask it. Right now . . . he just needed sleep._

He hadn't been able to sleep, as it turned out. Not for another seven hours. Instead, he had survived on coffee and adrenaline, first as crowds of doctors had swamped the little tent, doing their best to revive Virgil, and then as Gordon had been dragged from the rubble, clutching the dead woman so tightly that, had he not moaned every time they touched him, Alan would have thought that rigor mortis had set in. It was only once he had flown Thunderbird 2 home and landed her that he fell asleep, still sitting at the controls.

"You're worrying again," a voice said behind him. Startled, Alan looked around to see Tin-Tin emerging from the trees. Her dark her tumbled around her shoulders, and her bare feet were muddied, as though she had been wandering through the trees for hours.

"Grandma calls me a permanent worry."

Sitting down beside him, Tin-Tin watched him carefully as he stared out at the vast ocean which encircled their island home. It was flat calm, and the moon above them left a long, silver reflection in the tiny ripples. Here and there, the bright stars winked in and out as sea birds crossed in front of them.

"I've been looking for you since mid-day."

"You shouldn't have bothered."

"You left your watch on the kitchen worktop. We were worried."

"I don't see why."

"I wish you would stop being so difficult!"

Once, Alan would have either laughed at that, or walked off in a huff. Now, he just sat there, still staring out at the sea, without replying. Tin-Tin sighed, and started playing with the simple silver ring which rested on her little finger.

"Why won't you talk to me about it?" she asked eventually. In the background, midges were buzzing. Slapping one out of the air as it hovered in front of her face, Tin-Tin looked at Alan, waiting for his answer. When it came, it was barely above a whisper, but it was still sharp and cutting.

"You wouldn't understand."

As she could find no adequate reply to that, Tin-Tin settled for frowning, but it was useless. Alan didn't even look at her. He didn't even move as one of the midges landed on his leg. Surprisingly, after a long, drawn out silence, it was Alan who broke the freeze.

"I'm sorry, Tin-Tin, but I just don't see how talking to anybody will help me. It won't solve anything."

"I find it always helps if there's somebody to share with."

"I'm not you."

"As if we can't tell!"

This, too, evoked no response. Tin-Tin sighed. She had tried everything since Alan had fallen in to his deep depression, but nothing she had tried would get him to emerge from his shell. Now, she was trying to make him angry, so that at least he would shout it out, but even that didn't seem to be working. Part of her wanted to keep trying, but the rest of her was screaming just to give up. Alan had always been difficult, and just because she wanted him to do something, even if she wished it with all her heart, it never meant that he would do it.

"Alan?"

"Tin-Tin."

Her hand found his, but when she tried to take it, there was no reaction. Since the dreadful mission, Tin-Tin had found that her favourite Tracy relived over and over again, and when he had become so deeply entrenched in his nightmares as he was now, there was very little she could do to make him snap out of it. Remorsefully, she gave him a quick kiss on his cheek, and stood up.

"If you want me, I'll be in the lounge until the sun comes up."

She turned slowly and, wishing desperately that he would call after her, would open out to her, she walked back in to the shadowy darkness of the trees, where the moon and starlight was obscured. When she looked back, Alan was still sitting motionless, staring in to the dark abyss of the night.

As soon as he thought she was out of earshot, Alan slumped in to the sand, and screamed.


	4. Chapter Four

_A/N: Sorry about the long wait for this one. Inspiration was slow, and access to a computer was limited. Also, I've just realised that Quiller has a story called 'Late Night Blues'. I apologise, as I didn't realise there were any titles so similar to 'Midnight Blues' around. If I'd known, I would have thought of something else, but as it was, I thought I was being clever. Oh well, never mind._

_Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit._

**Chapter 4**

_"Oh George! How could you leave me? For her! My own sister! My own flesh and blood!"_

_"I'm sorry, my darling, but I couldn't stand living the double life any more. It was breaking me in two. Goodbye. . ."_

_"George, no! Please! Think about the child!"_

_"Child? What child?"_

_"We're going to have a baby, George. . ."_

_Shamelessly, Grandma Tracy sucked the middle out of a praline chocolate, staring intently at the large television screen on which the most recent episode of her favourite soap played. Without her eyes leaving the howling blonde and the dashingly hansom young man, who looked very much like Scott, her wrinkled fingers found the next chocolate in the large box, but as she lifted it to her lips, the episode flashed for a moment, and then a newsroom flicked on to the screen, a serious looking presenter frowning over some papers. She clucked her tongue, making Onaha look up from where she was slicing vegetables in the kitchen area. How dare they interrupt the show? Just as it was getting to the best bit, too._

_"Hey there folks, we interrupt this week's broadcast of_ Down By The River_ to bring you the latest tragic events. . ."_

_"The only tragic event around here is you interrupting my program!" hissed Grandma. Despite this, her fingers found the next chocolate – a very dark one, with a hazelnut in the middle. She began to nibble off the chocolate around the edge, never having liked this particular nut._

_". . .Over to Lisa Lowe. Lisa, what can you tell us?"_

_The screen flashed again, replacing the spotless room with a sight of devastation, somewhere very cold and snowy – it looked from this angle as though they must have been high up in the mountains. A building burnt, and the hulking shape of the great green beauty that was Thunderbird two was just visible in the background. Grandma smiled the smug, toothy smile of an old woman who treats her grandchildren's achievements as her own, and sucked on a truffle._

_"Onaha! Onaha dear, come and watch. My boys are on."_

_Obediently, the plump woman walked through and sat down beside Grandma, a glass of wine in her hand. Grandma eyed it disapprovingly. Although wine in itself was a good thing, it was only good when she was holding the glass. Huffing slightly, she looked up at the screen again._

_"As you can see, there's utter devastation here, but the Thunderbirds have managed to pull sixty-three people to safety with their fantastic machines. . ."_

_"My boys. Such good boys," Grandma muttered, glowing with pleasure. It was a pity Jeff was missing this, locked up in the lab with Brains. Just like him, she reflected, to be all busy and locked up when something important was going on._

_"One of the Thunderbirds has just emerged from the building, bringing what looks like a lady and three children with him. Two more are currently inside the building, whilst the fourth of their operatives is out here organising everyone present in to. . . Oh! Oh my goodness!"_

_The camera jiggled violently, and screams of panic blasted through the large speakers. Unable to make out the picture, her eyes not working like they used to, Grandma sat up straight, the caramel centre of her latest chocolate oozing over her hand as she suddenly gripped it tightly, cold shudders of foreboding washing over her like a tidal wave._

_Over the booms, like a true journalist, Lisa Lowe carried on her running commentary as the camera man desperately endeavoured to set his camera still, keeping Lisa the right way up on screens across the world._

_"Ladies and gentlemen, the burning hotel has crashed to the ground, burying doctors, ambulances and firemen who have only just arrived on the scene. . ." suddenly, a strange look passed over her face, and she whipped her head around, as if looking for something vitally important. Turning back to the camera, she gripped her microphone so tightly that her knuckles were white. "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems as though . . . impossible as it seems . . . two of the Thunderbirds were in the building when it collapsed. All that is left is rubble and smouldering foundations. The two Thunderbirds I can see seem to be at a loss for . . . no, ladies and gentlemen, they're springing in to action. The show must go on! This is amazing, just amazing. Those boys must be absolutely driven. One of them is talking to . . . no, wait, he's giving out commands to a fire team. Now they're both running towards the rubble. So quickly jumping in to action! The professionalism of those fabulous Thunderbird boys is outstanding! Even when two of their own seem to have died . . . it hardly seems possible anyone could have survived an explosion like that. . ."_

_Grandma jumped as Onaha touched her arm, fear filling her eyes. The box of chocolates fell to the floor, scattering everywhere, the box knocking over Onaha's glass of wine, making the violently red liquid seep in to the pale carpet. Grandma clutched at her heart, gasping for breath._

_"My boys," she whispered, "My poor boys."_

_"Mrs Tracy?"_

_"Jeff!" She leapt to her feet and, in a hobbling run – her knees were not what they once were, and her hip gave her difficulty when she even wanted to walk, let alone run, whatever she said to Jeff and the boys – she scurried down a corridor. "Jeff!" she called, "Jeff! Jeff!"_

_A door banged open, and two worried looking faces poked out in to the corridor behind her._

_"Ma, what's wrong? What's going on?"_

_"On the news!" she panted, tears springing in to her eyes, spilling over. "She said . . . she said . . . oh, Jeff!"_

_Bursting in to tears, the frail old woman collapsed to the floor, unable to shake the awful thought that, at the very least, her precious boys would be with their mother again now._

Ever since their return to the island, more than half dead, Grandma had never once let them leave her sight. She had sat with them on a twenty four hour guard until Virgil had opened his eyes, mumbling something incoherent, and then when Gordon had opened his eyes shortly after, and when he had burst in to tears at the sight of herself, and then at the sight of Virgil, and then at the sight of Alan, and then at the sight of . . . the poor dear. He'd been so very confused, wanting to know where his ma was. That had broken Jeff's heart, to see Gordon tearfully demanding to see Lucy. Grandma hadn't taken it too well herself.

It had broken her own heart, too, to see the usually tough Gordon shying away from everyone, wincing every time Virgil spoke, never, ever smiling. Her heart had leapt when she had seen him sneaking in to the kitchen to steal cookie dough whilst Scott distracted Onaha. Not that he did very well in distracting her, of course, but Onaha had seen the look in Grandma's eyes, and had happily played along.

Grandma smiled to herself now, as the sound of the piano filtered through from where Virgil was sitting in the lounge, perfecting a new tune. Of course, in her eyes, whatever he played was perfect, but she was willing to admit a certain amount of bias in the matter. He was her grandson, after all, and bias was only to be expected.

Her smile faltered, however, when she saw Tin-tin lying asleep on the sofa. The poor girl must have been up all night again, waiting for Alan. The silly boy, she thought to herself. It would be so much easier for him if he would just talk, instead of upsetting everyone around him, too. He never learned from his mistakes, she considered, that was his problem. Always kept things bottled up. Virgil and Scott talked to each other, John confided everything in his father, and usually Gordon and Alan would share everything, too, but somehow something seemed to have gone wrong in the cycle, somewhere. She pursed her lips, watching a small blonde figure appear from the trees. He'd have to talk to somebody sooner or later, or else he would burst. She would have to do something about it.

"Alan!"

She called a couple of times, before the boy looked around, trying to see where the voice had come from. She waved a wrinkled hand in the air, and he trudged towards her.

"Hi, Grandma."

"Hello, dear."

There was a small silence between them as Alan slumped down beside her with a sigh. Grandma thought carefully about the words to use before she opened her mouth. What was needed here, she thought to herself, was some tact. Tact was something distinctly lacking in the Tracy psyche. Of course, it must have come from her husband's side, not her own. If there was anything Grandma Tracy took pride in, beside her boys, it was her tact.

"You've been hurting Tin-tin, you know. You think I don't hear the poor girl crying away to herself whenever you stalk off somewhere?"

Alan winced, but quickly reassembled the expressionless mask which seemed to adorn his face all the time, these days.

"If you don't go and talk to her, I'll make sure Jeff or Scott gives you a tanning. Failing that, I'll give you one myself. Don't you go thinking I'm too old to catch you."

Instead of the shocked reaction she had hoped for, Alan's only reply was a small shrug. Again, Grandma pursed her lips. The music filtered through from the lounge, taking on a dismal note.

"Well, everyone just seems to be so happy at the moment, don't you think?" She took a toffee from her cardigan pocket – she always insisted on the cardigan, however hot the sun was – and began to suck on it noisily. Alan stared at the ground. "It seems to me," she said thoughtfully, "that you're having a bit of trouble getting over your shock."

Her grandson continued to stare at the ground, just as she had expected him to do. "Now, it's understandable at first, but I think you're being a little childish over matters." The sucking noise continued for a moment as Grandma let her words sink in.

"Childish is hardly fair, Grandma. Virgil and Gordon. . ."

"Nearly died. If you listen carefully, though, I think you'll hear somebody playing the piano, and if you go down to Thunderbird four, I think you'll find a certain somebody covered in grease or oil or whatever else it is that gets you boys so filthy before meal times."

"That's not the . . ."

"Point? Of course it's the point, dear. Now, if you'll just think back a couple of years – although I know you can't remember it – you may remember a certain event in which a couple of people actually died. My husband, for one, and your mother, for another." She held up a hand to stop Alan from angrily interrupting, inwardly pleased with herself for managing to get through the icy blockade that the boy had built up around himself. One day, she would pass on the secret to Tin-tin. All men were easy to manipulate, if you could just find the lever. "Now then, your father had just made his first million, and most men would have blown it all away and drowned themselves in misery. He carried on working, and look where you are now, because of that. Saving the world on a daily basis. The saviours of thousands, heroes of millions, all as a result of two deaths. My life didn't stop either, when my man died. It went on just as normal. I'd promised to be at a bake sale the next week, raising money for the homeless, and as much as your father disapproved, I went right along anyway, and made more money than the rest of the girls put together. Now, Alan, if you think two nearly-deaths are worse than two real-deaths, you carry on with your childish sulking, and you go and hide among your trees, and don't go and talk to Tin-tin. Right now, that girl needs a hug, and I'm not the one to give it to her."

Again, the mournful melody of the piano could be heard, and Grandma recognised a snippet she'd heard earlier. She didn't understand the piano, and had only ever been interested in it when one of her boys was playing, however badly they plonked the notes as small children being dragged screaming to lessons or, later on, Virgil playing in school concerts, or just using it as an emotional outlet, as he was doing now, but she understood the effect tunes had on moods, and she was grateful for Virgil's timing. A jazzy piece would have ruined the mood, and Alan would have been impossible to talk to. She smiled smugly as he frowned, lips moving silently, as if trying to work out a particularly difficult problem.

Suddenly, he looked up and gasped, then gave Grandma Tracy a bear hug, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Leaping away, he disappeared in to the lounge to shake Tin-tin awake, and Grandma smiled to herself, content with a good days work, and picked the toffee remains out of her teeth.


	5. Chapter Five

_A/N: Yet again, I apologize for taking so ridiculously long. Thing is, with this fic, I can never be sure about who I'll be writing about next, or what they'll be thinking about, because basically, I didn't think it through before putting pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. Either works fine. Still, the chapters get here eventually, so here's Jeff. It's a little short, but never mind._

_Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit._

**Chapter 5**

_Drenched with stubborn disbelief, Jeff strode through his island home, barging past a terrified Onaha and pushing Tin-tin and her father out of the way as he pounded in to the main room, where the television was still loudly announcing the events as they unrolled at the site of devastation where his sons were. Lisa Lowe was covered in ash and dirty snow, her bright green coat standing out against the blacks and reds of the burning background. Her glossy lips moved quickly, shaping words which, to Jeff, were incompatible with reality._

_". . . More ambulances are expected to arrive within the hour, now that the first wave has cleared the road. The two remaining Thunderbirds are working to extinguish the fire, but although they've got it under control, they seem to be facing some difficulties completely putting it out. Perhaps the fact that two of their comrades are dead has. . ."_

_"NO!"_

_Jeff let out a loud howl, hurling a blue vase full of flowers at the television screen. It smashed, and the speakers crackled before fizzing out. In the silence, the sound of birds singing further away on the sunny paradise island could be heard clearly. In his twitching rage, Jeff grabbed a china figurine – a Christmas present from Penelope Creighton-Ward two years ago – and hurled it at the remains of the television screen. It splintered in to tiny shards, and the head snapped in to two pieces as it hit the floor. Each half rocked gently, the glossy paint shining sadly in the bright sunlight, before slowly coming to a rest. Jeff didn't even notice all the pieces._

_Continuing his angry reluctance to accept what everyone else called the truth – the death of two of his sons, though he didn't know which – he stormed in to office, leaving his sobbing mother in the comforting arms of Onaha, and not even noticing the shock and misery of the others. Slamming his fingers down on a couple of buttons, he realise he was shaking so hard that it took three attempts to call John. When he finally got through, the astronaut was clearly distressed and only half paying attention . . . or, Jeff thought, trying to avoid meeting his father's eye._

_"John, what the Hell's going on?" his voice was harsher and louder than he had intended, but he needed conformation that the rumours were just that – ugly rumours. The blonde, however, was still staring at something Jeff couldn't see, and was frantically trying to bring some kind of order to his helpless situation._

_"Hang on, I'm just trying to get hold of Scott, he hasn't been answering me. I think Alan had just got a couple of people out of the building, and then there was an explosion or something, I can't be sure. He isn't answering either. I can't bring anyone up."_

_So. Scott and Alan were dead. The oldest and the youngest. There seemed to be some kind of poetic air that made a lump swell in Jeff's throat as his face turned a sickly grey. Feeling that he didn't need any further conformation, he cut the connection with John and sat back in his plush leather chair, feeling sick. Suddenly, after all the years of trying to bury her, his thoughts turned to his beloved Lucille, overwhelming him until he felt as though he was drowning. He wondered if she would forgive him for causing the deaths of their sons. Come to that, he wondered if_ he _could ever forgive himself for causing the deaths of his sons by sending them in to situations where they had to stare death in the face on a regular basis. Probably not._

_Under his breath, he cursed International Rescue. Such a foolhardy venture, continually risking the lives of his precious sons, just so that a few pathetic strangers who made no difference to the world could add a few more years on to their pointless, parasitic lives as they crawled around in the mud, grasping selfishly at whatever aid was given to them before hoarding it in their worthless homes like jealous magpies, too blind to see beyond their own worthless little cocoons. Were these the lives that Scott and Alan had died for? Slamming a fist down on his desk, he waited for the tears to come, but although his eyes were sore and felt as though they were popping out of his head, not a single tear formed._

_Instead, trying to vent the roaring tidal wave of grief, Jeff let out an anguished cry which echoed through all the rooms of his reclusive homes. The cry trailed off in to dry, agonised sobs, but instead of acting as a release of pain, Jeff felt twice as wretched as he had done before. Looking out of the window, he saw the sea sparkling in the sun as though it was winking at him, and the thought crossed his mind that it would be easy to just walk down to the beach, and wade in, not looking back. Dear, sweet Lucille would be waiting for him, her arms around Scott and Alan who, suddenly, he thought of as children again, waving happily from the other side, toothy grins beckoning him towards eternal rest._

_Almost as immediately as the thought came, he banished it, the faces of John, Virgil and Gordon floating to the forefront of his mind. How could he so selfishly leave them alone, just as they needed him? He wondered how they were taking it, and supposed that Virgil and Gordon had chosen to stay on at the rescue site. At least, there had been no call from either of them to say they were coming home. Perhaps they were trying to find their brother's bodies, although from what he had seen behind Lisa Lowe, he doubted that there was anything left to find._

_The light of Lady Penelope's portrait began to flash, indicating that she was trying to call him. He stared at the pretty face, and realised that for the first time in years, he didn't want to speak to her. He didn't want to speak to anybody. Finally, he felt the tears begin to form in his eyes, misting up the world. As the salted drops spilt down his cheeks, he put his head in his shaking hands and the world closed in upon him in a suffocating, claustrophobic darkness._

The sound of the piano echoed up to Jeff's office, and he smiled, although he felt a little guilty as he listened. Having refused any human contact until he had felt the deep thrumming of his office which indicated the return of Thunderbird 2, nobody had been able to inform him of the fact that his dead sons were not Scott and Alan. He had only learnt this when he almost run in to his eldest son, who was carrying a sleeping Alan down to the infirmary. Jeff had been amazed at how life like Alan had seemed, despite being dead, and when he realised Scott was alive, it hit him that one of his other sons must be dead. Immediately he suspected that it was Virgil – what other explanation could there be for him not being right next to Scott, as he always was? His heart leapt, and suddenly he felt like running through his home, singing, thankful for the fact that it was Virgil and not Scott who had died, before feeling a burning shame at his relief.

Listening to the melody – an overture written by some long dead composer – he suspected Bach, but could not be sure – Jeff sighed, and scribbled his signature at the bottom of a document requesting extra resources for some department or another of his company, then put it aside. Once Scott had explained the situation to him in full, Jeff at been disgusted at himself for how quickly he had dismissed Virgil's life in comparison to Scott's, and how readily he had cursed the lives of the people International Rescue had saved. He wondered, not for the first time, whether it was this feeling of guilt that had stopped him from sitting beside Virgil and Gordon until they woke up, like his mother had. He still found it quite difficult at times to look Virgil in the eye, although the boy did not seem to have noticed, for which he was grateful. Occasionally, he imagined how Virgil, or even Scott for that matter, would react if they ever found out about the way he had thought, and every time he did, he winced.

Gently, he touched the broken halves of the face of the figurine he had hurled at the television screen in his anger, as he had taken to doing recently. He had seen the looks Kyrano had given the thing, as though he wanted to throw the broken pieces away, restoring them with the rest of the shards in the bottom of a rubbish bin somewhere, but the little head was somehow more comforting than anything else on Tracy Island. As he rubbed his thumb along the broken edge, he noticed the flashing light on Lady Penelope's portrait, and opened the channel, glad for her company to distract him from the less than savoury thoughts plaguing him.

"Penny, what can I do for you?"

"Jeff, it's wonderful to see you. I was wondering if I could come and visit you, now that the boys are better? Last time I called you, things seemed a little hectic."

Hectic had been an understatement. Initially, Penny had carried on trying to get in contact with Jeff until she had eventually given up hope of getting through. A few hours later though, she had tried contacting the island again, to be answered by Kyrano. He had been torn between trying to comfort his daughter, his wife and Grandma Tracy, leaving Brains to try and talk to Jeff. As he answered Penny's call, Tin-tin had taken the opportunity to run off out of the house, doubtless to one of her hidden dens on the far end of the island, so she could mourn in peace. Realising she had not called at a good time, Penny had apologised, promising to call back later. The next time she had called, Virgil and Gordon had been found alive, and had been safely returned, though not yet conscious.

"Of course! When shall we expect to see you?"

"How about tomorrow? I have a few social calls to make, but I can cancel them easily." She smiled brightly at him, the confident, upper-class English accent rescuing him from his mournful reverie. Jeff returned the smile, but it felt almost forced. Judging by Penny's reaction, it must have looked forced, too. She frowned at him.

"Jeff, what is it? What's wrong? The boys are recovering alright, aren't they?"

"Hm? Oh, yes they are. Nothing's wrong. Really, nothing's wrong!"

Delicate music began to echo again from the hallway, and Jeff winced. He hoped Penny missed the sudden expression, but she spotted it and frowned even more deeply, her smooth forehead creasing in to wrinkles.

"Nothing? Really, Jeff, you know me better than that. Come along, tell me what's wrong."

Jeff shook his head and shrugged, avoiding the concern of the English beauty. She pursed her lips, but further information did not seem to be coming, so she moved to cut the connection, with a vague farewell, but Jeff looked back up quickly, deciding to grasp the chance whilst he felt he could.

"Penny, wait. Just suppose, for a moment, that a man thinks somebody he loves very, very much is dead."

Settling back in to her pink chair, Penelope nodded. "This is a hypothetical man? Not based on anybody you know?"

Again, Jeff shook his head, glad that his friend had caught on so quickly. "That's right. Completely hypothetical. Nobody real."

There was a small pause whilst Penny waited for Jeff to continue, but he seemed to have forgotten about her existence, listening to something in the background. She gave a small cough, indicating that she was still there, and would like to know just what, exactly, the hypothetical man had to do with anything. Looking up again, Jeff clutched his fingers together, trying to find the right words.

"Well. . . supposing the hypothetical man thought the dead person was one person, but it turned out to be somebody else. Would this man. . . I mean if he was. . . say for a moment he was relieved. . . even though he loved the second person very much, too. . . and if he felt very guilty about it afterwards. . ."

Miserably, he trailed off, and then he picked up the broken head of the figurine. A single, blue, glazed eye stared through him. Sometimes, the eye seemed to be happy, and sometimes sad, and sometimes disapproving. It currently looked incredibly disapproving, forcing Jeff to look away from it. Penny tipped her head on to one side, considering the hypothetical man. She tapped her manicured fingernails on the surface of the desk where she was sitting, and clucked her tongue once or twice.

"I suppose this man felt just as remorseful that the second person was dead as he had when the first person was dead?"

He contemplated this for a few moments. When Scott and Alan had 'died', Jeff had locked himself in his room, refused meals, and broken a few ornaments along the way. When it was Virgil and Gordon, he had very quickly been informed that they were alive, so there had been no room for any repetition. Still, he had been absolutely devastated about their conditions, so carefully, he nodded.

"Well in that case, I suppose this man must be excused. Clearly, he was relieved that the first person wasn't dead, and he couldn't help that. It was just very unfortunate that the other person happened to die at that time, don't you think? A man cannot mourn forever, or it would kill him."

A smile crept across his lips, and he nodded, picking up the half-face again. He touched the rose-pink cheek lightly, and although the surface of the China was cold and lifeless, it seemed to send a warmth up through his finger tips which reached his heart, surrounding it in a comforting blanket.

"Yes. That's right, Penny. Thank you. Thank you very much. I'm sure I'll. . . I'm sure the hypothetical man would be very relieved to hear that. I'm sure it would release a great burden of guilt."

"Glad to hear it. So who was it? Which son did you . . . sorry, the hypothetical man, think was dead?"

"The other hypothetical one."

Raising an eyebrow, Penny folded her arms. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"

"Some things are best left unsaid. We'll see you tomorrow, Penny."

"Goodbye, Jeff. I'm glad to have been of some help."

Feeling much happier than he had done in a long time, Jeff cut the connection and relaxed back in to his chair. Looking around at all the paper work on his desk for one last time, he decided to take a break from the stressful piles of receipts, requests, notices and bills, and set off in the direction of the piano. As a loud crash followed by a yell of distress and anger rang up from the hangars, the man smiled again, and ran his fingers through his greying hair, happy in the knowledge that life was slowly but surely returning to Tracy Island.


End file.
